


Ask not for whom the bell tolls.

by Justanothersinger



Series: The Soundtrack Series [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Be Very Afraid, M/M, also a plague, also featuring cheese and varying writing styles, death is literally a character so this cant be avoided, high amounts of death, high amounts of medieval drama, i may have gone full ham in here folks, it is literally 2am as i write this, now if youll excuse me i have to look up more rent ads, that really doesnt help the whole not dying thing, thats life folks, this was supposed to be a oneshot, this was supposed to be posted 2 months ago, warnings include
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justanothersinger/pseuds/Justanothersinger
Summary: "The prince stares straight ahead.To his right, sat Death.Close enough to feel the chills on his skin. The burning in his eyes and lungs.Self-preservation, perhaps.But somehow, he forces himself to look."A Goro/Akira fic set in the universe of the famous Poe fiction, The Mask of Red Death. The fic in itself is more of an expansion, setting the characters of Persona 5 in the AU.





	1. Cette phrase mutilé que vous adorez tellement.

**Author's Note:**

> any questions? requests? head on over to 
> 
> heart-machine-drama-queen.tumblr.com
> 
> for all your dying boy needs mmyep

 Ask not for whom the bell tolls.

 A Persona 5 fanfiction

 

It passes from their lips to the empty, frostbitten air, passed amongst themselves from those of noble blood to those barefoot and light-fingered.

Whispers, prayers, hushed among themselves, they watch the giant, brass bell ring out its solemn tones.

 

He does not. Because he has no need to.

The scent of smoke and ashes, it surrounds him on all sides.

Reminding him of what he had lost.

 

Happiness.

The kingdom lay in shambles under his feet.

 

Daunt.

His foe ravages country and village, cobblestone and town.

 

Sagacity.

With its shrewd cruelty, it decimates every single beloved citizen and crushes their lives under its claws.

 

And they are left burning the bodies of their beloved's mangled corpses, until their features are burned into their mind.

Pale faces, blue tongues.

Eyes that see everything, that see nothing.

 

 

The very portrait of desperation.

 

Desperation...hm.

It seems to be the best fit for what they dealt with now.

 

On the throes of desperation, away from their prying eyes,

With the scent of charred flesh in the air, fire born of death,

With the last shreds of 'desperation', his citizens turn to him.

 

With glassy smiles and confident eyes, the council locks him away in the abbey.

With prayer, with whisper to stay safe through those thick oak doors.

 

"They can't reach you."

"They can't find you."

"You alone will be safe...!"

 

In their fervor, they seem to forget.

 

With the dying throes of his kingdom, the impossible happens.

He comes face to face with the intangible.

 

_**"Ask not for whom the bell tolls, O beloved Prince."** _

 

Death.

It stands before him, a contradiction in its very self.

Death.

 

What else could he call it but that?

A figure draped in shadows and a face shrouded by a mask.

 

On the other side of the doors that shut him away from the world, the voice of Death echoes in the empty chambers of God.

 

_**"It tolls for thee."** _

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

**Chapter 1: Cette phrase mutilé que vous adorez tellement.**

**End.**

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	2. Cette chimère, vous appelez un cœur

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. 

Chapter 2

 

They called it 'The Black Death'. Death in its very name, because no disease thus far had ever been so fatal, so hideous.

Though it was named after the color of night, blood was its avatar. Its very seal.

 

Sharp pains, sudden dizziness, then profuse bleeding at the pores.

Before the end of the hour, the victim of choice would be dead while their families cried on the other side of the door.

Perhaps slipping away from the sharp gazes of the plague doctors, to hold their cold hands.

 

By the time the prince was locked away over half of his kingdom had succumbed to this disease.

At this point in time, the threat that it would reach the upper echelons of the high court seemed more and more prominent.

The suggestion that he would stay in the abbey was made by the people in black. The plague doctors with their strange, pointed masks.

 

Like the head of a diseased, withered bird atop a human's body.

A chimera of sorts.

 

"Let His Highness seek refuge in the arms of the lord."

 

A tragic monster.

A tragedy.

 

With those kinds of thoughts, he'd stepped inside the abbey and resigned himself to that simple, captive life.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

**Chapter 2: Cette chimère, vous appelez un cœur**

**End.**

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	3. Regardez vos mensonges aimants démêlez à portée de main.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. 

Chapter 3: 

 

With the death of half the kingdom, it was only natural that rumors of a greater force, of a conspiracy would start to spread.

He'd first heard from the Charioteer that took him to his new residence.

 

"It stands over the bedside of the dying!" He says in a voice louder than the Prince would have liked, "And it takes their souls while they die on their cots!"

 

He gives some kind of placating response, but is duly ignored for more loud theatrics. It provided for a good distraction.

An ironic one.

 

As he's being led to his coffin for his own demise.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

He first sees Death as he slept on his simple bed.

A being made from darkness incarnate.

 

From the holes in the wall to the cracks on the floor, like slithering serpents, like the chills over his skin.

 

The prince does not remember much of that encounter.

Only the ice in his lungs, the coming winter.

A mass of shadows by his bed, with soft whispers of words in an alien language.

 

The pale, dying moonlight that shone in between, a brief respite, did nothing to alleviate.

Rather, because of it, he could see.

 

See those eyes.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

The next person to speak of it was the Lover.

 

One of the ladies who'd been chosen to accompany the Prince in his stay at the abbey, she was not one to particularly catch his curiosity in any other way. Apart from the initial curiosity over her appearance.

But for some reason, hearing that rumor again tacked on to a noble, it made him pause.

 

"It is an...abomination of the darkest kind." She says. She's always been painfully considerate of her words and how she spoke, especially among the other daughters of nobles. "It takes the form of man, yet made entirely of shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Supposedly, to cover his own inflictions from the plague."

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

The second time he sees Death is after their prayers had been said.

Oddly enough, it was during the time that they had kept the plague victims in their prayers.

 

He vaguely remembers feeling a prickling sensation down his spine. Chills and a quickened heartbeat.

The first pew. Closest to the floral offerings.

 

At first, he didn't understand what he was looking at. Unlike the last time they'd met, it was bright daylight outside.

The shard-like reflections from the sunlight pouring in through the delicately-patterned mosaics.

 

Whatever light fell on the shadows...was eaten. He didn't know how else to describe it.

Unlike the cold shine of iron and gold, or the luminosity of light on colors.

 

A void of darkness in this world of light.

 

Except.

 

Just then, the heavens seemed to play a particularly cruel prank on him.

Just then, it turns to him.

 

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

The next person to speak of it was rather unexpected.

 

"How so? You would hardly find a person not speaking of him these days." The Emperor says, barely even lifting his gaze from his canvas. Today too, he hasn't lifted his paintbrush, or touched his palette.

He supposed that was true. But why his interest?

 

"Partly due to the way those who spoke of him described him."

Described him?

 

"Maybe it's due to them believing that he is an incarnation of Death. Their descriptions of him wax eloquent poetry." He says, his chuckle hollow. Devoid of mirth.

His fingers twitch on his brush, his hand does not move.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

It was a man, they had mentioned.

A lone, young man, from the depths of shadows.

 

Contrary to what they had said, though, he appeared in the day as well as the night.

Well, the prince supposed he knew that first-hand.

 

 

...

Perhaps the threat of death had made him a bit foolhardy.

But he had to admit. He was curious. Insatiably so.

 

The prince stares straight ahead.

To his right, sat Death.

  
Close enough to feel the chills on his skin. The burning in his eyes and lungs.

Self-preservation, perhaps.

 

But somehow, he forces himself to look.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

...This was an unexpected visit.

She sat in his usual pew. When she saw the Prince approach, she smiled.

"I see that you are well." The tone in her voice is matter-of-fact and her words trail into the silence.

 

As was she. But what was she doing here?

"...It's so peaceful here." She says by way of explanation.

Her skin was pale, and threw the shadows under her eyes in stark relief.

 

"I'm almost envious of you, your Highness."

She looks like she's stared Death in the eyes.

 

"As do you." A mirthless chuckle, "It sounds quite ominous to say that, considering why you were sent here."

Silence, then a pondering look.

"You've heard the rumors as well?"

 

Even here, it was impossible to avoid them.

 

"...If he truly does exist...even then, I feel pity for him."

Pitiable?

"Every day, I see them. In the waking world and in my dreams." She closes her eyes, a pained expression, "Every victim that we treat. Every victim that we lose."

 

Her hands clasped together.

 

"We only manage to keep them alive for a couple of moons, at most. And even then, we cannot ease their suffering. I can..."

"....."

 

"I can...only imagine suffering that pain for all of eternity."

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

Over the course of these days he'd somehow stayed alive, he'd come to realize several things.

The first realization was that Death took the form of a man. Just like the rumors had said.

 

The second was that he could not look at Death for very long. Possibly an obvious assumption, but he'd come to realize it during the past few days, especially when he'd made the first realization.

The longest he'd lasted was for a few seconds and then the ice-cold dread in his blood would threaten to stop his heart, his forehead burned, his eyes strained. His body couldn't last under that strain, and he was being closely monitored as it was.

 

Death took the form of a man, covered in a cloak of shadows.

There were shadows under his eyes and cuts on his hands. Rashes beyond his wrist, disappearing into the darkness.

 

Pale skin. And where his skin was cut, his blood appeared to have frozen. Or congealed.

 

Frozen in time. Like a corpses'.

  
Dead men tell more tales than he realized.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

Alone and effectively locked away for the rest of his days, one would soon run out of good memories to relive.

A few days after, he runs out of bad memories too. Now, he spends his time, remembering what happened and what could have been.

 

Some days, he wakes up and forgets which story line he's locked himself in.

 

But today, a seemingly unimportant memory sticks in his mind.

A memory of a Hermit living on the other edge of Time.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

The Hermit was far more apt for a chat than he had heard.

Once he'd gotten over the notion of chatting to someone crouched in a corner, facing the wall, that is.

 

"..."

And the lapses in silence between words. Then again, he never was one to keep up the flow of conversation that well either.

 

"I haven't come up with a cure either." Is the petulant admission.

"..."

 

"Oh, no. The Prince is disappointed in me. Whatever shall I do." She continues, now sounding a mite more sarcastic.

He wasn't.

 

"Were you expecting failure from the beginning? That's heartless, you know."

Considering the number of failures, it would be downright optimistic.

"Experimenting with the kingdom's subjects should be kept in moderation. Soon, there would be no-one left to keep alive."

 

A sentiment he shared, but he had no choice.

 

"How cutthroat." She falls silent again.

 

When she speaks again, it seems to be of her own ponderings.

 

"It would help greatly if the dead could speak."

Isn't that what she's supposed to do?

 

"I am not one of those hideous black birds." She says indignantly, "I don't cut open bodies and examine them for a sick idea of fun!"

They're the ones donating most to the cure efforts.

"Hmph. You're probably going to be the next plague victim."

 

...

"...What?" The Hermit evidently found something wrong with this silence, unlike the others, "It was a joke."

It was.

 

"You can't lose your nerve now. Dead men can't speak, the past is the past. And you're a beacon for the future."

The past.

"We can't afford to let you die just yet."

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

"I cannot die."

 

He says one day, aloud.

He thinks...he sees Death shift a little.

 

Once he starts speaking, it's impossible to stop.

His fractured thoughts, words, everything.

 

"I can't die yet. Not yet. The townspeople are keeping me alive because they need me alive."

"..."

"With all that, my reason for being kept alive should be important. It should be."

 

It isn't.

 

"But even then. I'm terrified of dying. Then again, all of them were. And they still did."

Awkward sentences, incoherent thoughts.

"Despite everything I still want to live."

 

"..."

 

He stops just then.

So caught up in his train of thought, he forgot just who he was talking to.

 

So occupied he doesn't realize.

How cold the room felt all of a sudden.

How...dark the room felt all of a sudden. Like the very light itself had been smothered and dimmed, like the breath in his lungs.

 

Of course...he'd forgotten who he was talking to.

So. Without thinking, he looks into the face of Death.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

"Regrets?" The Empress repeats, in slight confusion, "Do I have any, you mean?"

He nods and she seems to think about it carefully as she places her cup back down. Her expression serious, eyebrows furrowed, eyes closed.

 

Eyes open, now with a steeled kind of expression.

 

"Regrets...well, I do. Especially considering all that's happened." The Empress says, with a slight, sad smile.

The kingdom collapsing in on itself.

 

...Oh. And what she's gone through. The prince apologizes, slightly sheepish.

"No, it's alright. You have your own problems to deal with." She says, shaking her head, "I can only imagine what you must be going through at this time."

 

...

 

"Why do you ask? Is something wrong?"

 

He'd been staying, in isolation, for quite some time. Even with the companions he'd brought along, he'd soon ran out of topics to talk about and the circumstances around them always meant they'd invariably talk about what happened around them. Death and diseases and flimsy strands of optimism from their fraying societal masks.

 

"Do you have any regrets?" She asks. Quietly, carefully. It was strange that word.

The way it reminded him of days where he'd long thought he'd made his peace.

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

**Chapter 3: Regardez vos mensonges aimants démêlez à portée de main.**

**End.**

 

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	4. Les morts, les mourants et les fleurs offertes, tous pour un thé morbide

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. 

Chapter 4: 

 

The End. 

It was approaching. He'd felt it somehow.

  
It perforated the very air he breathed, the soil that he walked on, like violent smoke and chemical jasmine, artificial and poisoning. 

Birds and mice and men alike, voices empty and hollow and echoing. Sunken, listless eyes. 

 

Even behind the Church doors. 

 

The floral offerings in front of the pews are unnaturally bright, he thinks. 

Glaringly bright. 

 

It reminds him of the colors of poison. 

 

His eyes close when he feels that familiar numbness creeping down his back. 

A wistful smile. 

 

"...You were away for quite a while." He says.

He doesn't bother looking behind himself anymore. He doesn't need to. 

He knows that sensation all too well. 

 

A dry, mirthless chuckle, "Of course, I imagine you were _quite_ busy these days."

 

His voice was hoarse and he felt like he was running on fumes.

Breathing in the smoke and the frozen air.

 

"I'd have to wonder if you don't tire of killing my subjects." 

 

He can barely force himself to laugh now. 

The numbness creeps up his fingers. But that's all there is. 

  

Their gazes meet. 

 

He feels the remnants of fear in the bile that rises in his throat, the scratching at his windpipe.

But that's all there was.

 

"It's not like I can do much to stop you. All I can do is wait for the end of my own time." 

 

 

**_"Are you afraid?"_ **

 

That made him pause.

"You...speak, as well?" Says the Prince, and he manages to keep his tone even, "Goodness me. What a surprise!"

 

They even sound alike.

 "I certainly wasn't expecting this, though...I should have. Is this how you appear to all your victims?"

 

 

**_"And how do I appear to you?"_ **

 

 

"...Hm. Based on what the rumors entail, you're supposed to represent someone amongst my parents,

my friends...

or someone else similarly as important to me."

 

**_"You seem uncertain of that claim."_ **

 

"You...that mask covers your face, but...I do not recognize you."

An eyebrow arched in a familiar way that he knows all too well.

 

**_"How hurtful, your Highness."_ **

 

A hollow sound and the Prince feels the first stirrings of an emotion he can't describe.  

  
"You'll have to forgive me if I don't remember you, that wasn't my intention.

Solitary confinement can do a lot to the mind."

 

 

It happens again, that hollow sound. And the Prince realizes what it is.

Laughter. Unlike the voice, it's very clearly a grotesque non-human snarl

masquerading as human mannerisms and the mockery of a voice 

he knows. 

 

He knows...all too well.

 

 

**_"I see. If that's the case, allow me. "_ **

 

 

As the voice echoes around the Church, he bends his head slightly,

his hand covered in scratches, bruised knuckles and blue fingers, 

prying the mask away from his face.

 

A familiar smirk and those eyes. 

 

"..." 

**_"What is it, Your Highness?"_ **

 

He's dimly aware of how his breath catches,

his heart pounding in his ears.

 

The revelation of an impossibility forming in the corners of his mind. 

 

**_"You look like you've seen a ghost."_ **

 "...Ha. Haha...ha..." He chuckles weakly, "Is that supposed to be a joke?" 

 

 

_**"In poor taste, perhaps."** _

_**"It's been too long since I talked to another human."** _

 

A smile through bruised and cut lips,

with the ghost of human pain in his eyes. 

 

**_"And it's been especially long since I talked with you."_ **

 

For some reason,

even though his eyes are used to seeing what they can't understand,

his lips are used to conversing with a god he doesn't believe in-

 

He can't speak or can't bear to look. 

 

**_"What a terrifying glare. How unbecoming of a Prince."_ **

**_"You'd scare all your suitors off with such an expression, Your Highness."_ **

 

 

 _There_ was that same familiar taunting look,

that crude, honest way of speaking. 

 

How  _infuriating_. 

 

**_"Are you that much happier lying to yourself?"_ **

**_"They damn the soul to an early death, you know."_ **

 

"I shouldn't have to hear that from you." 

He says coldly, dropping all pretenses. 

 

**_"True. I was a hypocrite in that regard.'_ **

 

"What a ridiculous situation. Why are you here?" 

"To taunt me before I die?"

 

Everything about him had changed though. 

His movements are stiffer, uncanny like a puppet's.

Artificial light in his eyes and expression. 

 

Most noticeable when he stops smiling, stops pretending. 

 

Something...wrong. 

 

**_"I'm here to make you remember."_ **

 

 

"Remember what?" The prince snarls, "My memory is pristine." 

He doesn't need to remember  _anything._

 

**_"Of course, you don't. It's not for your benefit."_ **

 

 

His smile is less artificial now. 

 

**_"You are all too aware of what happened."_ **

**_"But you may as well humor me one last time."_ **

 

"...Listen to the raving delusions of a dead man?" 

 

**_"For old times' sake?"_ **

 

Old times. A shared history. 

The very words leave a bad taste in his mouth. 

 

"...Do I even have a choice?" 

 

  ** _"I wonder if you ever did."_**

 

And with a grand sweeping motion of his arm,

and a bow,

he begins his tale.

 

**_"I will start at the beginning",_ **

**_"With the last thing you would want to remember."_ **

 

Of course, he thinks. Somewhat bitterly. 

Underneath those deliberate, light-hearted thoughts,

a shadow, a sliver of dread, on his spine,

it begins to grow.

 

**_"That day that began with the advent of a Prince"_ **

**_"And the death of a commoner."_ **

 

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 

**Chapter 4: Les morts, les mourants et les fleurs offertes, tous pour un thé morbide**

**End.**

 

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**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of The Soundtrack Series: A set of dares whereby I write a work well over 1K+ while using a single song as inspiration material instead of like the 24 I usually have in my folder 
> 
> Et maintenant! La dépression du jour est: 
> 
> Freedom and Security: Persona 5 OST
> 
> Comment très prévisible, non?


End file.
